


A Matter Of Great Importance

by MarceloSylvaine



Category: Sam Club Forever
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author, Blood, Blood and Gore, Crime, FBI, Gore, Law Enforcement, Mayor - Freeform, Military, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Nomad, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Scars, Sculpter, Tattoos, Torture, Treasure Hunting, Treasure hunter, conspiracy theorist - Freeform, politician, prophet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarceloSylvaine/pseuds/MarceloSylvaine
Summary: Seven old friends gather for a funeral of one of their own, but the circumstances of his death lead them to believe he was murdered. Each with their own setbacks and guilt, carry a burden with them on this journey. They re-live a haunting past all of them wished to forget, riddled with conflict and tragedy. Pain and suffering will give some a lesson in redemption, and some a fate of life long regret.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. The Perils of a Treasure Hunter

A week had passed since I’d picked up the gun on my dining table. My whole being shivered when I glanced at it. When I got into this whole treasure hunting business, I knew it was going to be costly, but I never thought I’d take a human life for a little gold statue. Sometimes that Okoxa artifact gave me a look of disapproval. I’m fairly certain Damián Magrina’s corpse is still sitting at the bottom of the ancient city’s sewer system. At least it was quick, one shot to the head. I hope I spared him from a slow and painful death at least. I’m pretty good for a self taught shooter. I sure wished I could get the creepy idol out of my apartment soon. I’d gotten a buyer from the city, a private collector. Hate to give up history like that, but I’ve got to feed myself somehow. I poured myself a drink. Nothing like a glass of whiskey to clear my head. I’ll be honest I’m not much of a drinker, but killing someone really shakes a person up I guess. I’ve gained tolerance for seeing corpses, but they’ve been dead for centuries, just old dusty bones when I get to them. It feels different to put a bullet through a living being’s skull though. My phone rang on the counter in the other room and I slugged over to answer. I wasn’t fast enough. Felt bad because a long time friend had just called. Kristy Drew, she became an author a few years back and apparently had been quite successful. She sent me one of her books a few months ago, but I never got around to reading it. I was deep in the jungle with an expedition, not much free time to get a good read in. If she was calling about the book, now I felt really bad I hadn’t read it. I played back her voicemail.

“Sorry to dampen your celebration, I heard about your big find, but one of our old gang passed away a few weeks ago. I had trouble reaching you so this news is a little abrupt, but our good friend Blake died overseas, the funeral is in five days. I would like to know if you’ll be attending. Get back to me as soon as possible, thanks, bye.” 

-FBI headquarters, Washington D.C. Present Day-  
The investigator pauses the tape. He clears his throat and glances at his watch. I fidget with the handcuffs loosely on my wrists. The cuffs are chained to the table but I could just as easily slide them off. It felt like I was re-living the events of months ago. I had no idea listening to Kristy’s voicemail would do that to me. Of course I wouldn’t tell the cops about that. Detective Kramer leans in under the glare of the fluorescent lamp above. “Another thing before you go, you lie to us, and we find you”. He attempts to lean back in his chair, a smug smile across his face. I grab his wrists and stare him in the eyes.  
“You and I both know I ain’t goin nowhere, but I’ll tell ya one thing. About a year ago, some assholes hired a few grunts to keep me locked up for six months. Beat me half to death. Just so they could get ahead on finding some shit in the Amazon. They spent all that time diggin’ for nothing. I got out with one less finger, but about seven more clues on Captain Francisco Hernandez’ treasure. A week after my release, my team and I uncovered one of the biggest finds of the century. I don’t tell no one the way I work. You’ll have to bash my head open to get inside my mind, and I’m willing to die on it.”  
He unchains me from the table and hands me over to another officer. As I’m being led out down the hall, I can see Detective Kramer’s head in his hands looking somewhat defeated.  
The policeman takes me back to a holding cell. “Detective Kramer has ordered your release by tomorrow if he doesn’t turn up anything with those friends of yours. Both of us are hoping you get out scot free, but I wouldn’t count on it. Several higher ups are looking to see you locked away for one reason or another, but you didn’t hear it from me”. He gives me an uncertain glance and paces down the corridor. 

“Wooo wee! They musta’ got you for somthin’ good if you in here. Ain’t so often someone gets sent straight to headquarters! Whatchu here for anyways”. A woman with a crooked smile cackles in the cell opposite mine. She claps with joy at her own words. I hesitate to answer. I can’t decide whether to humor her with a conversation.  
“Ain’t muchuva talker are we? They always get ya”. I almost choose to ignore her inquiries, but her voice annoys me so damn much that I turn around and give her a sentence.  
“Actually, they didn’t get me. If they did, my ass would be on its way to federal prison right now.”.  
She squints and chuckles a bit.  
“Ain’t you that treasure huntin’ chick? The one who discovered captain what’s his names gold? I done saw you on the news! Now I’m real curious what business you’ve got with the FBI”.  
This time I choose not to converse further. You never know how much information people can preen off of you in casual conversation. She presses on with her bothersome banter. This middle aged lady tells me she pulled two bank robberies. Got caught trying to buy a luxury coat with heaps of cash. Hard to believe, but now I’ve seen it all. I wonder how she was smart enough to get away with two high scale heists, yet stupid enough to try and blow it like that.

Sometimes I get carried away in my mind and I can’t stop thinking about one particular thing. This time, it’s the old gang. I mean it really sounds like one of Kristy’s novels at this point. A treasure hunter, a prophet, an author, a conspiracy theorist, a sculptor, a traveler and a politician all gather together for an old friend’s funeral. I mean seriously she should write a book about this. We’ll all probably be in prison by then, but I think they still let you publish from the penitentiary. We really screwed up this time. It’s almost an honor to get detained by the FBI. Almost.  
I’ve got to tell you, holding cells sure aren’t the height of luxury, but they might as well be the Ritz compared to brazilian prison. My mind wanders while I lay on the rock solid mattress. I stare at my arms covered in scars. When I got back to the states, I tried my best to cover them up with tattoos. They were mostly of writings and symbols of ancient civilizations. I used to retrace the lines for hours, remembering my time across the world.  
Months prior to this mess, I had just returned from the Okoxa expedition. It had been successful, although it cost a life, and the blood was on my hands. I had made it clear to myself that I would withhold news of Damián’s death from my crew. On the trip back I was distant, quiet and reflective. I hadn’t been home for close to a year. The Hernandez find put me on the map, and the Okoxan ruins secured my position in the treasure hunting hall of fame. Upon my return, I was offered interviews and talks around the country, most of which I turned down. They still wrote articles on me, but instead of giving shallow words to the press, I was sitting at home, drinking whiskey and feeling like shit.

-Northfork, four days before the funeral-  
A day after I received the funeral invitation, I got out for a few hours to buy myself a black suit. While I was browsing the selection at Mosley Tailors down the street, some guy recognised me. He asked for a picture. I reluctantly accepted, well aware that I looked like actual hell. I hope he enjoyed his photo, because I sure didn’t. I’m not much of a people pleaser. He asked me a few questions about my expeditions, and left after he realized how thoroughly annoyed I sounded to be answering them. While I was getting fitted, the tailor’s son Marcus asked about my tattoos. He’s actually the first person I’ve ever been willing to talk about them with. A sweet young guy with a skinny frame and dark features. Curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. Nervous kid, but talented. He’s always around when I’m here. I really never talk about personal stuff with anybody, but he seems genuine enough to understand. I helped them move into their shop three years ago, and I do odd jobs for them between trips. Some of the most down to earth folks you’ll ever meet. Marcus wondered what the occasion was. He looked sorry he inquired after I informed him of my friend’s death. Shay Mosley told me I could pick up my suit tomorrow morning.  
On my way back to my apartment, I received a call from the city. I was quite literally startled to hear the voice of the Northfork City Commissioner on the other end.  
“Hello? I was hoping to reach someone. Is this Lilly Fraser?”  
The only reason I recognized his voice was because he liked to make his public appearances around mayoral election season. If there was a political rally, he was always in attendance. Not that I go to those events, but they are nearly impossible to avoid seeing on the news this time of year. Commissioner Mark Burnett sure liked to hear himself talk.  
“Yes…” I replied, not certain where this conversation was headed.  
“Miss Faser, I would like to personally congratulate you on your recent successes. To that end I am extending an invitation to you. The city’s election night gala is coming up, and I hope to see you there”.  
Commissioner Burnett hung up the phone. I had reached the entrance to my apartment by now.  
I set my keys on the counter, turned on my television, and stared at the glowing screen. My eyes rested on someone I hadn’t seen in so long. She was dressed in a navy blue suit and a white blouse, her light blonde hair in a neat bun behind her. On her lapel, a shiny pin read “Lacey Crenshaw for Mayor” in colorful light blue. Goddamn.  
Second old friend crossed off my search. Was I really even looking? They showed up. Two in a week. Kristy Drew the author, and Lacey Crenshaw the politician. Well technically three, although one was not very alive. Blake Vincent, the deceased.  
She looked good these days, although I’ve seen how holding public office ages you. Sometimes gracefully, but not always. Take for example Commissioner Burnett. He’s been holding the post for a decade, now he looks like an sad excuse for a man, with hunched posture, and sad tired sunken eyes. His hairline is receding faster than you can blink, and his career is getting flushed too. I listened to reporters drone on about Mrs. Crenshaw’s campaign promises  
There is a great chance that Lacey was invited to Blake’s funeral, whether or not she would come was another thing. From the time that I’ve known her, she’s been nothing if not loyal, but it’s been years since I’ve even seen her. The last moment I spoke to her she gave me some advice.  
“Never take advice from your friends”. She smiled at me, patted my shoulder, and left. Contradictory, but oddly useful.  
I stood up to grab a leather bound notebook from a drawer. I unwrapped it and ran my fingertips along the coarse weathered pages. This was my expedition journal. Over the several years of my career, I have detailed my work and findings in this single book. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine. One who inspired my life path, and guided me through my young years. And one whom I shot in the head. My personal hero Damián Magrina, experienced treasure hunter and author. I was sixteen when I took up an apprenticeship with him. I would accompany him on minor leads with his team over breaks.  
You should know that Damián was always “on” to something. “The next big find was always around the corner” according to him. He’d spend droves of cash on false leads. Eventually the money was drained, his crew had left, and he was all alone. He begged me to take him along after I finished the apprenticeship, and graduated highschool. Magrina always cited the same moment when he wanted to convince me of something.  
“Remember the notebook” he would say in his deep voice. “Remember that I made you who you are, I gave you your roots. No matter if you get rid of me or not, I will always be with you in spirit. My soul is bound to those pages that you write on”. I do in fact remember clearly.  
Just after my seventeenth birthday, we were due to depart on an overseas expedition to europe. In the airport we sat next to each other. In actuality I recall the conversation quite vividly.  
“It’s been an honor to teach you all that I know Miss Fraser". Damián would call me miss when he was going to do something generous or kind. He bowed his head and extended a beautiful leather notebook to me. “For your future adventures, may there be many”, he told me, placing the book in my open hands.  
I treasured that gift possibly more than any artifact or gold horde I could have dug up. On the plane that day, I wrote my first entry.

__________  
Journal entry 1: Tuesday, May 22nd 2012

Damian gave me this beautiful notebook to record the treasure I’ll find. You’ve been a great mentor Damián if you ever read this.  
__________

Below the sentences was a detailed sketch of Magrina sleeping upright in his plane seat that filled the whole rest of the page. His long beard and hair were messy and tangled in his resting position, but even so, he wore a formal business suit on the long flight. The sketch was pretty good for my skills at seventeen. The face at least, was well done. I could still draw Damián’s face from memory. I had checked last night. His slanted face and large nose are engraved in my memory. His sincere loving smile that beamed at me. Even as I pointed my gun at his head, his eyes were closed but a slight peaceful smile lay on his lips. Damián’s old body wasn’t cut out for treasure hunting in his later years. He was injured, shot in the chest by my competitor. 

He propped himself up against the ancient stone walls. Shaking hands grasped his bleeding wound.  
Just as he had years ago, he began referring to me as miss. This time, stopping every few words to catch his escaping breath.  
“It’s been… an honor, working with... you, miss Fraser”. He reached into his satchel slumped next to him on the dusty tiles. Damián’s bloody hands stained the cloth that wrapped the object he retrieved. Gold glinted from between his fingers. I had since kneeled to his level. My outstretched palms felt the weight of the statue.  
“For the… future, may there be a bright one… for you…” He grinned faintly at me.  
“One… last… thing. I, I… want. I want you to shoot me” He breathed in, grimacing at the pain.  
Tears welled in my tired eyes, “No, I can’t do that”.  
“Please…”, He begged, “Remember… the notebook”. He wanted to finish his plea, but he winced and coughed instead. My sweaty hands clutched the gun I held to his forehead. As I pressed the trigger, I stared at his restful features, peaceful in the face of agony and death. That is the way I draw Damián Magrina. Reconciled, content with his fate. His silence was more powerful than any last words. He didn’t need last words to say everything he wanted to.  
I left him there, I think that's the part that got to me the most. He was never buried, or cremated. But maybe what I gave him was what he wanted. To die amongst the ruins he dedicated his life to finding. With the remnants of lost civilizations, that had long since become one with nature. 

I felt the rough pages of the notebook in my hand, they reminded me the last time I ever saw the light in Damián’s eyes. I didn’t carry the same ability to let go like he did.  
I twirled a pen between my fingers, and finally decided to mark a page with ink. I hadn’t written in a while. Seeing the worn leather reminded me too much of him. He always told me to let go of my worries. I suppose I wanted to try, for my mentor and friend. I wondered what “letting go” entailed. That’s one thing he never explained. He probably wanted me to learn what it meant to me on my own. What I was afraid of was forgetting his face, his words, his impact. I thought that letting go meant erasing him from existence in my mind. Had I learned nothing?  
I took my first step in honoring his legacy that day. A small but necessary advancement.  
I started a new page with today's date and wrote the names of the gang down in neat printed letters. I put careful attention in spelling their names correctly. Many years had passed since I had written them last. I slashed through the first three names Lacey, Kristy, and Blake. I drew a sketch of Lacey’s face next to it all. The person whose features were fresh in my head. Cursive lettering under the sketched portrait read “There is no greater treasure than human connection. -Damián Torres Magrina''. And so the search begins.


	2. King Of The Desert

“My hands were wrapped around a cold beer. I popped off the lid with the side of the counter, stepped outside, and reclined into a dirty white plastic chair. Sweat from the drink dripped down my fingers in the heat of the desert, as I squinted from the glaring sunlight reflecting off the empty landscape. I left routine life in the city, bought a plot of land out here in the middle of nowhere in Utah. I guess I had this dream of true freedom. Some would say I’d devolved into madness being here in my little trailer, with nothing for miles and miles. I’d say I had been enlightened.” I tell my story to Detective Kramer, in full detail about the weeks leading up to the funeral. He looks bored. Perhaps my story is a little long and convoluted. His hands rub his temples like he is trying to fend off a headache. Am I the headache?  
“Please Mr. Howard. We’re here to talk about Blake Vincent, not your… origin story”, he groaned. I roll my eyes and continue anyway.   
“This is important,” I insist.  
“So the little commune I inhabit and run has a population of rather strange folks in their own right. We call this place Full Moon Springs, because when a full moon shines onto the metal roofs of the houses, they sparkle like fresh clear water”. I look over and he taps his watch while he takes notes.  
I’m relieved to hear he’s not bored, just pressed for time. Or maybe both. I skip ahead a bit.  
“The day I received the news, I was enjoying a bonfire with the citizens of Full Moon Springs”.

-Full Moon Springs commune, Utah, two weeks before the funeral-  
Yalia handed me a tin cup with a mysterious brew in it. I swirled it around, grimacing at the pungent smell of homemade alcohol. I placed it on the ground and decided not to drink. Yalia looked over from across the fire and gave me a joking angry face. She was the local brewer here. To keep the lights on in the commune, we sold handmade art and drinks every week at the market in Newhalen, just a few miles away. We’re known there as ‘the hippies’.   
“I’m tired. I’m gonna head back”, I told my friends. They were too busy conversing next to the warm dying fire to hear me. That, or they were drunk out of their heads from the booze. My pocket buzzed and I glanced at it briefly. I decided it wasn’t worth it to answer my morron of a brother.   
The setting evening sun burned a beautiful orange in rays onto the surfaces in my trailer. I sat down at my computer and began writing the last comments for this week's blog. Mostly theories about the New World Order. Known to us as ‘ghosts’, people who dedicated their life and thus their existence to the New World Kings. Presidents and Prime Ministers were merely puppets to the true rulers of our species. And my existence was dedicated to spreading the truth even if it killed me. I would be a martyr for the revolution.   
The sun had now dipped behind the horizon, leaving my unkempt face illuminated by the bright screen in front of me. I closed my tired eyes and leaned back in my chair. My hands clenched and I grit my teeth. My feet tapped uncontrollably on the cheap plastic flooring. Fidgeting. Goddammit I forgot. I forgot to ask Yalia while she was in town yesterday. I forgot. My hands shook as I sweeped the counters and shelves frantically. Not here. In one hand I grasped an empty bottle, and in the other my keys and phone. I ran outside to my car, nearly tripped over my uncoordinated self. My clumsy fingers fidgeted with the handle. Impatience. “Shit!”, I yelled, finally prying open the door. I climbed inside, I wasn’t fit to drive. Too late to ask, everyone was probably passed out drunk. Only a few miles. I tapped my nails on the steering wheel to avoid too much fidgeting in my feet. It was dark now, and it was cold too. I had no heat in that junker. I was freezing.  
*ring* *ring*  
“Damn! A call”, I briefly looked over at the empty seat next to me. I got distracted. I stopped tapping my nails on the wheel. My foot lifted from the gas and the vehicle came to a halt. Better that way. I reached over to answer. Kristy Drew? Long time no see, old friend. No time. I accepted the call with shaking fingers.   
“What do you want?”, I spat quickly.   
“Are you ok? Is this a bad time? I will call back if it is.”, she replied. Kristy sounded exhausted.  
“No- no, go ahead”  
“I'm sorry to… have to say this. Blake, he passed away overseas. The funeral is two weeks in Clement’s Point. Damn I’m so tired of making these calls. Again, I’m sorry. I know it been awhile. I’ll send you the details. Goodbye”.  
What a bad time for bad news. I set my phone down, and started up my car. Nearly there. I had no time to process how important that call would be. Nor did I care at the time. I wasn’t planning on going. I barely knew the dude. I used to, but time paved over that connection years ago.   
Still freezing, I stumbled into the small pharmacy in Newhalen. Robert the usual was there to greet me with a smile that never rubbed off. He seemed concerned when he saw the state of me. A bit of an annoying fella. Overly endearing to strangers, people he would never see again. Why bother. He hurried from behind the counter to help me sit down. I wanted to swat his clammy hands away from me, but I was too disorientated to do anything of the sort. He took the empty bottle from me and waddled to the back for 10 minutes. I counted.  
I held out a wad of cash when he came back and we exchanged. Cash for a bottle of sanity pills. That's what I call them, mainly because I can’t pronounce the real name for them, but partly because it’s a more accurate description of what they do for me.  
I opened the bottle with great difficulty and swallowed a pill dry. My phone screen cracked, I don’t remember how, but it was big enough to cut my finger on when I swiped to unlock it. My hand balled into a fist and I used my other thumb to text Jack. The little bastard was coming to visit me for some goddamn reason despite my protests. He’s got this pathetic veneration for my affection, which I can’t lie makes me sick. He just needs to get out of my life. In truth I enjoy taking advantage of his weakness. I hope that doesn’t make me some kind of psychopath, but I’m not sorry for any of it.   
I clumsily wrote out a sentence and hit send, "I’m in Newhalen. Meet me."

"Alright hang in there."

"Be quick or I’m leaving."

My absolute numbnuts of a brother turned onto the street after fifty two minutes of me freezing my ass off. Needless to say I wasn’t pleased. “I waited forever! It’s fucking freezing! Where the hell were you? I was being nice inviting you, and I thought we could have a drink. But since you took your sweet time, I’m going home”. I pulled out some cash and tossed it in his direction. “Get yourself some damn sleep and meet me at Full Moon Springs in the morning. You look terrible by the way”. 

-FBI headquarters, Washington D.C. Present Day-  
Detective Kramer coughs a little and pushes up his glasses on his angular nose. “I’ll take it you don’t like your brother very much. You sure insult him an awful lot. And look, I don’t mean any offense when I say, what does this have to do with anything anymore? I just asked how you reacted to the news of Blake Vincent’s death. If I wanted to know about you and your brother, I would have asked, no?”.   
I state frankly, “well I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my story telling. You know you’re a real asshole sometimes. I’m just trying to liven up the mood in here because you seem stressed. Fraser is a tough cookie”.  
Kramer looks frustrated, and surprised I know who he previously interrogated. “I don’t think you have any say in how I conduct my questioning. Your last remark leads me to ask another question. How the hell do you know the rest of these people?”  
The detective opens a manila folder and lists off several people, placing their photos in front of me as he goes.   
“Lilly Fraser”  
In the photo, her hands and face are bruised. Her buzzed head is bloodied. She was the only one who resisted arrest.   
“Kristy Drew”  
She just looked tired.  
“Jack Howard, your brother”  
Jack looked pathetic and scared. Like always.  
“And, Samuel Kingston. The one we shot”  
They took a picture of his corpse, and it stares at me, eyes wide open.  
“Tell me what they mean to you. And any details on Fraser you have, I would like them”.   
I nod, “the deal?”  
“Yes”.  
“Alright”. I smile. “Since you seem interested in Fraser, here's what I’ve got. She is a career treasure hunter. During our time together she carried around a journal, and loved to draw sketches of faces in it. Talked about someone quite frequently. Damián Magrina if that name means anything to you, apparently someone really close to her. She was argumentative and hotheaded, pissed a lot of people off. Fraser always talked about ‘avenging people’ and her ‘duty as a friend’. She seemed like she was compensating for something she did. Something that she feels guilty about. That's all I’ve got on her”.   
Kramer taps his pen on his notepad. Notes are neatly organised in lines on the paper. “Thank you. Now the others”.   
I guide my gaze down the line of familiar faces. “Kristy Drew, some kind of novelist. Gained minor recognition for a mystery book series. Quiet, a little freaky. Never really talked with me. Jack Howard, a bumbling idiot and my brother. Need I say more?   
Now Sam Kingston is an interesting one. He’s a cultist, a bunch of his followers live on his property in Colorado. Fraser was always pressuring him to stay with us, she got him killed for it. If you press enough, I’m sure you could get her to break”. I try to stand up, forgetting I’m chained to the table.   
“Wait hold on- sit down. I’ve got one more question. “Your brother Jack, a strange man but damn smart. How can he be a ‘bumbling idiot’ as you put it, if he’s nearly a genius and the mastermind to your spree of crimes?”  
I scoff and crack out laughing I look the man in the eye and repeat, “As I said, he’s fucking morron”. The detective calls in an officer who escorts me down the hall. Kramer seemed stressed, but I thought that interrogation went well.   
I sit in my cell peering out into the hallway. The officer on guard duty has his feet on a small desk. He rests a cup of coffee on his stomach. He has one of his monitors set to the news where I can just make out a bit of the headline. “Lacey Crenshaw loses…”, the rest is covered by a stack of hastily organized files and papers. His desk was littered with empty soda cans and food. The officer’s name is Robert, just like the pharmacy clerk in Newhalen.   
I guess Crenshaw didn’t fare too well in the polls. Serves her right, the snake.   
I’m getting fidgety. My forehead and hands are sweating. I knock on the bars to my cell.   
Robert jolts awake and looks over to me. He no longer needs to ask what I want. He opens a drawer and pulls out a bottle of sanity pills. Robert lumbers down the small corridor and drops one in my hands. “Jesus you take a lot of these”, he tells me.   
“Can’t help it”, I reply as I swallow it.  
“Alright, whatever”, he rolls his eyes and returns to his desk to nap.   
I rest my head against the cold stone walls. I try to think about something deep, but I’ve never been able to, so instead I think about the deal I made with detective Kramer. He wanted me to testify for a reduced sentence. I accepted. Perhaps in another world I would have the courage to stick it to the man. I would say no, and go down with my people. But I guess I realized that my people are no better than The New World Order. They’re all pieces of shit in their own right. But I ain’t no piece of shit. I’m enlightened. I know humanity’s crimes, and The Order’s crimes and I’m done with it all. I’m done being anxious, and tired. I would damn them all to hell if I could, but I realize now that I am powerless. I don’t live to serve others, I live to serve myself. Serving myself means putting all my buddies in prison. 

I meet with my buddy Kramer the next day. It’s going to take awhile to hear from everyone involved.   
The detective brings in a tape and his computer. He sits across from me at the metal table and addresses me, “So, you believe in these ‘conspiracies’? What you call The New World Order”.   
I’m surprised he wants to go down this line of inquiry, it seems far from important to this case to me. “Whatever you feel like calling it, although yes, that is the name it’s commonly known by. I don’t see why you’d be interested”.  
“I’m interested because you, I know, run a ‘blog’ on this subject. It seems central to your world view”. Kramer turns the computer screen towards me. A browser page is opened onto my website. I glance at it but direct my gaze to the detective. “Detective, do you have a family? Maybe a spouse, kids, a pet? Or are you invisible… a ‘ghost’”.   
“I do not understand how this is in any way relevant or appropriate for you to ask me anything, given that you are the one chains here”, he nods to my handcuffs. “But in any case Mr. Howard, I would like you to explain your theories to me”.   
“As you wish. In ancient times a superior breed of beings roamed the planet. Superiors they are now called. They were kings and tyrants. They ruled humanity with an iron grip, but humanity resisted. Their tyrannical rule led them to disaster when their human slaves took power for themselves and killed nearly all of them. Few remained. Those who did went into hiding. Humans soon forgot the existence of their violent masters. In time, Superiors revealed themselves, this time as miracle workers and ‘prophets’. The foolish believed them, and served them, now willingly. Miracles and magic are real, but it isn’t human. The Superiors learned it was better to rule from the shadows. They give mankind a sense of freedom. They make us believe we are electing our leaders and running our governments. Humans who wish to join their cause are known as ‘ghosts’”.

Kramer has completely zoned out since I started explaining The New World Order to him. He slowly taps his finger on the surface of the table, and takes off his glasses to rub his eyes.   
“Well then”, he says, “do you believe I am a ghost?”  
“Tough question, I guess we’ll see if I remember you”.   
He takes out the tape next and plays it to me.

“Hello. Kristy? I don’t plan on coming to the funeral. Things have changed… for all of us. I left that world behind to seek the truth. I have life here in Utah, and I’m not going back to that place, just to be reminded. Just to be reminded of what happened. It’s not worth it”. 

“What happened Mr. Howard?... We just want to know your motivations, and why you changed your mind”.  
“It took a week to make that call. Jack and I never once talked about it while he visited. I think the reason was because he wasn’t quite sure I was invited at all. He should have asked me, but that little shit is scared of me or something!”  
I wait for a response or perhaps another question. Instead Kramer stays silent for quite awhile. “What are you hiding…?”, he asks me. His deep blue eyes stare at my face. They make me angry. I wish I could tear them out.  
“I’m not hiding anything! I gave you what you wanted, information on the others and agreement to testify. Now it's your turn to hold up your end of the bargain”.  
“On the contrary, this is an investigation. The bargain is fulfilled and I keep my word, but I have a job to do too. That job is to explain to my superiors why and how obtained the information you did”.  
“I wasn’t a part of the plan. I had no idea what they were going to do! They never told me anything! I was dragged into it I swear”.  
He seems content with my answer and lets me leave. I don’t quite know what that says about me or detective Kramer. Is he foolish to have believed me or was I the fool for lying to him.   
The day I left for the funeral, I went to refill my pills. The days leading up to my flight to Clement’s Point, I took more than I usually did. The desert had become my home, my kingdom. I ruled free, without restraint. In Clement’s Point I was a slave, bound by my sins, and whipped by my past. A part of me wanted to look the devil in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading thus far. I hope you don't hate this too much. Just so you know, the eight first chapters are dedicated to the introduction of the 8 'protagonists' of A Matter Of Great Importance :/

**Author's Note:**

> My writing style tends to be confusing so I'm really sorry about that, but I guess you'll just have to deal with it.


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